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RPlog:Borderlines
The Corellian stands out in the crowd. Not because he is so very particularly striking, or because he is the center of attention. In fact, the man is still dressed rather casually and is off in a corner and quietly minding his own business. No, the reasoning is because he must have requested that a section of the globe be undimmed to allow the rays of dying sun to break through the normally protective layer. This golden light illuminates the man as much as it does the book he is reading through. Changed from the light tan shirt worn earlier, Paul is sitting relaxed in a soft forest green shirt, which glows warmly under the sun's touch. Glasses have been abandoned, left lying on the table along with some food that has been brought, but merely picked at distractedly. With one elbow on the table, head nestled into the palm of it, the other hand resting against worn parchment pages, he is the picture of a man in quiet contemplation. Like the Corellian, the willow figure of Ylsa stands out in a crowd, pale and lissome in an ivory dress. The silken material runs close by the gentle curves on her body without hanging too tightly until, near the knee, it spreads outward to a softly swirling skirt that lands somewhere near her ankles. The design of the dress is almost austere, with but a single thin line of gold as decoration on the cuffs, but is carried on her frame with simple elegance. She heads toward the center of the room, her arresting gaze meticulous in searching for Paul, and as she looks she lights one of the slender cigarillos and stands, posed with it perched near her lips, without any regard to attention she may be receiving. Shifting merely enough to turn a page and reach for the sandwich resting patiently nearby, Paul takes a bite, placing it back as he slowly chews and swallows, eyes flickering over the words before him. Taking up a pen he frowns for a moment, scrawling in the corner of the page thoughtfully ... perhaps a random thought, or maybe a doodle or sketch of some type? He taps the pen against his face for a moment before returning it to the page to make further marks. Ylsa has little trouble locating the handsome Corellian and glides to his table after waving off a server with the inquisitive look of someone wanting to take an order. A long, deep inhalation of her cigarilla follows, then it is tapped into an ashtray on another table. The beauty of this product? It leaves no acrid scent to indicate she has been smoking. "Doctor?" she murmurs, resting her fingertips on the table near his reading material. Head raising slowly, Paul flicks back a swath of hair which feathers down over his eyes. "Lady Viceroy?" he echoes back. To him the titles both seem appropriate ... they are both what they were, and to a certain extent, are ... but not in any offical capacity. He takes a moment to peruse her figure, noting the decided differences from this morning. If Paul had ever hoped to throw her offstride, to see that cool veneer stripped away to reveal whatever is underneath...well, this is likely the closest he will come to having that happen in public. She starts, eyes widening ever so slightly, then she inquires with a hand gripping the chair opposite, "Do you mind if I join you?" Shocking her wasn't so much the intent as perhaps just putting the lovely lady back in her place ... and to point out the inappropriateness of titles and labels. Gesturing graciously with one hand, Paul inquires politely, "Would you care for anything to eat or drink? I was just having a small bite for dinner ... rather informal really." "My appetite is not as it has been," she answers candidly as she lowers herself into the proffered seat. Mistrust can be discerned in her blue irises...and guardedness. "You have been a very busy man." Shrugging casually, Paul pushes his plate between them, as there is enough samplings of various foods to feed both of them really. Hazel eyes shift to meet hers steadily, no malice evident in their depths. "It seemed prudent, considering my earlier offer ... and fair considering your previous research. I think we can call it a draw now, yes?" Ylsa considers, tapping a fingernail on the table nearest her. "I would believe so, were I you. There is as yet a bounty on me, as you know; it is not without reason I worry that someone will wish to collect." Raising one brow thoughtfully, Paul replies in quiet earnest, "I have been many things, but a bounty hunter and being obsessive about money do not list amongst them." Closing the leather bound book before him, Paul notes, "And your aversion for the Imperials lessens my concerns about you doublecrossing us on at least that front ... so I don't have to worry about obtaining any insurance to assure your loyalty." Tagging a waiter as he passes, Ylsa, having apparently changed her mind from earlier, quietly requests a double Corellian brandy. After the man has tendered her a puzzled look and vanished to fulfill the order, she observes thinly, "The motives of men are often difficult to predict. While your trustworthiness is likely, it is not guaranteed. I do not know you well enough to feel certain of it. I believe you appreciate what I mean." "And the same can be said of you," Paul notes with an understanding nod. "Motives are not only a "man's" province ... and while it will probably offer you little comfort, mine are at the least benign if not actively honorable." Pushing aside the book, Paul pockets his glasses and reaches over for another finger sandwich. "So ... what is your decision? Are you interested in my proposal?" A large glass of brandy is set before Ylsa, who waits for the server to depart before continuing. "I have no choice." A few other words seem to be forming, but she dismisses them with a curt wave of her hand. "I have no choice." "Of course you have a choice," Paul counters, frowning at her peculiar pronouncement. "You may accept if you think you could benefit from it, and you can decline if it you think it is worth neither your time nor the risk." For a moment Paul considers the woman before boldly reaching across to touch her hand. "What I know goes no farther than this table, no matter what your decision." "You mistake me." Ylsa samples her brandy (by downing almost a third of the glass) and explains thinly, "I meant if I hope to remove myself from Ullo's grasp I should take your offer. After all...there is nothing keeping him from turning me into Imperial custody once I have paid him in full." This last is said with a bit of embarassment, as if the thought has only just occurred. Withdrawing his hand, Paul sits back for a moment, considering Ylsa, but knowing there is little that -he- can offer her in terms of assistance. "Some Hutt's prefer to keep their reputation intact," he offers as slight consolation. "It doesn't look good if you treat your employees badly ... there are plenty of other opportunities, and probably plenty of competitors looking for someone on the inside to "take care" of a fellow Hutt who just happens to be in their way." Paul reaches for his glass of iced tea, sipping for a moment before asking, "Then you're in?" Ylsa turns to gaze out of the window, barely blinking. After a solitary nod of affirmation, she stills so much that, if the pilots of one of the tandem cloud cars cruising outside would look in, he would believe Paul were sitting with a statue. The firm line of pride in her jaw keeps her head raised high, but her eyes, what can be seen of them, betray her feelings that the world about her is crumbling. He doesn't want to feel sorry for her ... he doesn't want to care, but the woman across from him, despite her earlier deceptions, is tugging on the Corellian's heart strings. _She'd scorn sympathy .... any kind of soft feeling ... even if it's what she craves most_ Besides, Paul has been feeling the sting lately of his interventions and involvements ... time for some distance. This is business, plain and simple. Taking another sip, Paul's eyes study the ice maiden across from him. "What do you know about Darius Nul?" Without removing her gaze from the sunset Ylsa answers quietly, "His name is familiar. I know his background to be shady. I know him to be Corellian. Beyond that, I am ignorant." "He was a Corellian pirate from before the Clone Wars ... ravaging ships and systems during the reign of the Old Republic," Paul ellucidates. "His band of ships were one of the most successful pirating rings during their reign of terror, but Darius Nul was the genius and true motivator behind it all. When he retired, it all fell apart. Much of his captured treasure was never found or recovered, and it has been rumored for decades now that he gathered up over a millon in credits and his most treasured possessions, and like the seafaring pirates of old, hid it away somewhere." The sun light cuts across Paul's features, his eyes glinting out through his narrowed gaze, hair almost golden in color. "No one, of course, has ever found it, or even had a clue as to where he might have stashed it ... until now." "And you have found it?" The subdued tone would in other circumstances imply disinterest had her eyes not gleamed with attentiveness; disbelief is likely the cause of her mildness. Shaking his head, Paul corrects, "We've found the map, the details of which we're still working out, but we know where it generally lies ... on Athaniss, beneath the ocean's surface." Of course the Corellian knows how patently ridiculous his tale sounds ... like something from a children's holovid ... but often the truth does seem a little less than plausible. Ylsa smiles at last and echoes gently, "Athaniss? It is beautiful there, I am told. Is it not? And you seek to adventure there?" A trace of a smile graces the Corellian's mouth in reply, "I don't know ... I've never been there actually." Reaching for his glass, Paul lifts it, the ice clinking musically within it's crystal chamber. "Knowing what I do about Darius, yes, I would expect to find some adventure there. Hopefully nothing to compare to say, Mandalore." He takes a sip, murmuring in addition, "That's why we need someone with your expertise ... to help bolster a good cover story, have the appropriate documentation, and dissuade the Imperials from trying to babysit us whilst we go exploring." He pauses for a moment before adding, "And of course, as a full partner, you're welcome to come along to protect your side of the investment." Silence descends. Ylsa reaches into her small bag and removes one of the slender cigarilla, lifts it as if to light it, then returns it to her bag and folds her hands over her lap. "I will accept your offer, Paul," she states with a thin underline of steel; her words are meant to be a commitment, a verbal contract. "When will you wish to leave?" "That will all depend on you," he returns evenly, hand reaching across the table. "As soon as our cover is devised, papers processed, and computer entries forged, then we're ready to go." His hand extends toward her, the final point to settling the deal. "Pleasure to have you on board Ylsa Estrallas." Some of the humor, of the bemusement that he had seen in her upon their first meeting, is again glistening in her smile and eyes. Both of her hands take his, nestling it between her soft, supple palms. Her revolutionary days are either long behind her or she has quite the hand lotion to rid herself of callouses. "It's a pleasure to be had on board, Paul Nighman," she replies quietly. Indeed, her expression, her very demeanor, seems alight from within as hope suffuses the frustration that Paul uncovered earlier in the day. "I feel that a small celebration is in order. Shall we dance?" Small scars and callouses still grace the Corellian's hands, but there is something reassuring in that roughness. If Paul is taken aback by the soft transformation, he doesn't let on to the fact. His hand merely squeezes her back in appreciation, and in a softly timbered voice, he replies, "Quite so ... I would be honored." The fluidity with which Ylsa moves - so facile, so thoughtless - harkens back to the endless lessons she must have received since birth on how one behaves as a princess. One hand brushes at her dress to ensure its lines are flat once she is entirely vertical, the other hand reaches for Paul's arm. "Shall we, then?" she queries with a faint uplifting of one brow. Although no prince, and not of noble birth, Paul rises smoothly, too late to draw her chair for her, but timely enough to offer his arm. "Surely," he replies with a wry smile, and with a mannerly carriage and pace, he escorts her ladyship to the floor. He turns her lightly, allowing Ylsa to spin into his arms, taking up one hand in his own, his other hand dropping to waist. The music has the courtesy to start on cue, a jazz-inclined waltz, and Paul makes a decisive first step into the dance. Nestled within the competant hands of the Corellian xenoarchaeologist, guided with deft skill beyond what one might by habit expect from a bookish sort of fellow, Ylsa floats through the waltz with surity and style. As the dance progresses, so does her pleasure in it: no doubt can exist that she takes much delight in following Paul's lead, matching her steps to his, blending his movements with hers. Seamlessly they are paired, and his reward is the first truly dazzling, unguarded smile from her lips since first they met. He'd seen such a transformation once before ... when the embittered angry lines of Mara Jade's face had shifted, grown miraculously overjoyed and gentle. It stole his breath. The effect this time is no less dramatic. The dance comes easily to Paul and there is always the pleasure of a well matched partner. The Corellian's smile grows, something a touch softer and less dazzling than Ylsa's, a touch lopsided, but still charming. Due to her background, he expected no less of her skill, but had certainly not expected her facade to fade away in his presence. Though she has no desire to spoil the mood or the rhythm by speaking, the former princess conveys her appreciation for his ability with her eyes, her smile, her attitude. It is nearly with sadness that she greets the conclusion of the dance, twirling colorfully into a final step that draws her close to him with a lilting laugh. Amazed glances are directed at the pair, partially because of their style and verve, partially because Ylsa's laughter is so blatently uncharacteristic. It is, in a word, happy. Holding her slim form close to his own, Paul holds the last pose for a moment, and small smattering of applause making his smile quirk to one side as he peers down into her bright sapphire gaze. Drawing away from her fractionally, Paul lifts the hand clasped within his own to his mouth, pressing a light kiss to the back of it. "Another?" he purrs inquisitively. "But of course," is her reply, softly spoken to match the expression in those brilliantly azure eyes. The unseen musicians change the pace and create a gentle samba, a more languid rhythm for a more relaxing circling of the dance floor. Hands shifting to her hip, Paul draws Ylsa into the seductive song of the rhythmn, their steps taking them across the floor in lazy moves. Keeping his eyes on her's, Paul moves them about the room, passing and shifting past the other dancers. "You dance very well," he murmurs inadequately. Demure as her expression may be, his compliment rings true with her, and her low-spoken answer of, "Thank you, as do you," reverberates with deep-seated appreciation for the compliment. "Odd to find such grace in a Corellian, let alone so tall and strongly built a man..." Chuckling, Paul twists her into a sultry dip, smiling warmly. "You should have seen me in my youth - I was a big clumsy oaf, really." There is something about his eyes, the smirk of his smile that denies her flattering words, even if he doesn't verbally counter her. Ylsa chuckles low in her throat, remarking as she follows his lead into a sensuous swirl, "Clumsy and oaf are hardly words I would associate with you, my dear Paul..." Then, sighing, a confession of self-indulgence: "It's been so long since I had a talented partner. I'll be keeping you here all night." One brow raises, flattered and charmed, "All night? Good thing my schedule is wide open then." He whirls her about gently, the music encouraging them to shift positions .... The "dear" Paul takes him off guard, the Corellian's smile growing a touch more lopsided in what must be embarassment? Ylsa submits again to the swaying rhythms of the dance, even to the extent of closing her eyes so that she may more fully submerse herself in the dance's flow. "But I have work to do," she murmurs, voice drowsy and distant thanks to the alluring, hypnotic effects of the samba. Drawing her close, Paul brings her into the final lingering dip, golden-green eyes gazing down at her closed ones. His voice is like a rich Corellian brandy, with a smooth delivery and a sweet afterburn. "Work? Tonight? I suspect you work too hard ... take the night off." He slowly draws her back up again, awaiting her pleasure ... to continue dancing or sit down again. The music shifts into something slow and drugging, and heavy romantic piece, bittersweetly blusy. She naturally shifts from samba to slowdance mode without a single gear catching, without any glitch whatsoever. Her cheek presses against his neck as the dance's lassitude urges a depth of relaxation previously unseen, and her arm curves about his neck; contentment flows from her, washing away the remnants of any tension. Hands shift to her back, one at the small, the other between her shoulder blades. The steps are simple, almost more like gentle rocking with a few changes in the position of their feet and then more rocking. His frame is strong and firm, inviting her to relax against him, to grow pliant. There is a certain degree of security in the support he offers. Dipping his head slightly to her shoulder, Paul hums softly along with the melody, the song familiar to him from days long gone. Against him the lithe lady is supple warmth and sinewy softness, the silk's sleek transluscence disclosing the elongated lines of her figure. Taking his unspoken invitation, she closes the spare distance between them and dances so that their bodies touch without any inelegant, clumsy leaning or pressing. An intimate ballet is what they share, two bodies as one. The soft humming breaks off for a moment as she bridges the minute gap between them. It takes Paul a moment to recover his breath, after which he picks up the soft humming again. It's a little difficult to have conversation with someone you hardly know ... and it's too early in the relationship for him to be comfortable with silences ... especially this close up. "I haven't heard this song in ages," he muses thoughtfully, a small break in the melody line. The impression left is, perhaps, that Ylsa doesn't enjoy enough silences and was perfectly content in losing herself to the music, its rhythm, and the delicious feeling of having a handsome man guiding her in a wonderfully languid dance. When he speaks, however, she draws her head away from its place against his throat and inquires, "Perhaps you will have cause to remember it now?" "What, the lyrics?" Paul queries. "Yes, I remember them," he murmurs then, allowing his voice to trail off, feeling more relaxed as he senses her contentment with the peace of just dancing and being for the moment. Chuckling lightly, Ylsa presses near to the Corellian once more, his body and hers idly rocking together in the dance floor's moonlight-bathed atmosphere. Her breath brushs against his throat, sweet and even reminder of her serenity, though her lips themselves turn so that they come in contact with the flesh at the nape of his neck. The contact seems incidental but... A small ricochet goes off in the Corellian's pulse at the slight brush of her mouth. His hands shift fractionally in almost a caress, but Paul firmly squelches any desires or ideas that perk up. They're dancing ... close ... it means -nothing-. His body, of course, disagrees, but being a man of greater will, he is able to subdue that contrary response. He is perhaps fortunate as the music draws to a close and the band announces that they're going to take a short break. Taking a slow step back, his hands shift to catch hers, holding them as he gives her an inquiring looking, wondering what she would like to do in the meantime till the next set. "Would a walk in the station be amenable?" the blonde queries, her hands resting comfortably atop his palms. As she makes her inquiry, her eyes linger upon his, enjoying the play of colors in those hazel irises and the subtlety of expression. Ferdenko rises into view and steps into the lounge area. Ferdenko has arrived. Ferdenko enters through the doorway and looks around the room, a grin on his face. Ferdenko looks at you for a moment. His head dips slowly, the Corellian murmuring, "Just need to take care of my tab and get my things." The depths of those eyes flicker with unspoken thoughts, the green especially bright with his shirt to set it off. Raising one hand graciously, a brow rising in humor, he feathers a kiss above it and then takes his leave. Striding comfortably toward their abandoned table, Paul lays down credits to pay for their food and drink, gathers up the ancient book and his satchel, and stashing away the former within the latter, swings the strap across his torso before turning and heading back toward Ylsa. Ferdenko takes a step into the shaft, and is gently caught by the repulsorlift field, which lowers him gently down and out of sight. Ferdenko has left. Ylsa has been joined, briefly, by a Trandoshan who is speaking with one hand on her elbow, head near hers as he ugles in his gutteral tongue. Frowning, she gives him an attentive ear and nods severally before mumbling, "All right, all right...tell him I'll let Ullo know and to be patient." The Trandoshan grunts, displeased, and reiterates something in garbled anger that she dismisses with a curt gesture. Slowing his pace to allow her some privacy, Paul shifts his gaze off to one side casually. He has no idea how long the Trandoshan might have been there, but if he only just arrived, perhaps it would be prudent to appear unattached to the slim lady. Even if the being had seen them dancing, Paul has certainly seen Ylsa dismiss her partners casually before. The Corellian shifts his direction, as if he were heading toward the bar ... just in case. Sure enough, the Trandoshan is sent on his way with a few brisk words in his native language, and, that done, Ylsa brushes her hair from her eyes (the locks having gotten slightly dishevelled in the dancing) and moves toward the exit. She sends Paul a meaningful glance over her shoulder, an indication she wishes to be joined outside the bar and its growing crowds. The Corellian leans against the bar, ordering a half shot of Corellian brandy. To the casual observer, he seems quite oblivious to his surroundings, but a casual straying glance allows him to catch Ylsa's look, which he doesn't acknowledge outwardly. His head then dips before turning back to the tender. Reciving the drink, downing the drink, and paying for the drink all take just enough time to allow Ylsa to leave the bar unattended. Paul waits a few moments longer, feeling the heat from the liquor burn his throat before nodding his thanks and heading out of the Skybar, his gaze seemingly inward and distracted. Ylsa takes a step into the shaft, and is gently caught by the repulsorlift field, which lowers her gently down and out of sight. Ylsa has left. You step into the shaft. As you do so, the repuslorlift field catches you and you begin a slow descent from the Sky Bar, which rises out of view... Grand Entryway North - Cloud City This wide, expansive hallway leads directly into the main corridors of Cloud City's upper levels. Underneath the high ceiling, huge windows dominate the south wall. Sunlight floods in from these windows during daylight hours, while moonlight illuminates the metal sculptures in the middle of the hallway at night. Softly glowing blue cylinders are periodically affixed to the walls, which, along with the marble floor, are polished to a very white shine. People occasionally stroll down side corridors, talking quietly amungst themselves. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Ferdenko => Ylsa => IGNews Terminal (Imperial) - Bespin => Mail Terminal: Bespin -=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=- outh leads to Grand Entryway South - Cloud City. - leads to The Sky Bar. orth - leads to Landing Dock 91 - Cloud City. Ferdenko is strolling along, headed towards the fringes of Cloud City. Ylsa's hand curves comfortably about Paul's arm as he joins her outside of the bar, a proprietary gesture that implies a bit of possessiveness. "It was getting somewhat stuffy...overly crowded," she comments blandly as her cheek leans upon the tall Corellian's shoulder, "and so much have I thought today that my head aches miserably." The Corellian doesn't seem particular surprised to come out from the bar and be joined by the lovely lady. Glancing down with a wry smile and a raised eyebrow, Paul merely agrees, "Indeed ... much too crowded." Craning his head so he can peer into the face against his shoulder, Paul murmurs, "Shall I take you home so you can rest?" "Rest? No...I have work to do, remember?" Ylsa pauses, chewing pensively upon her lower lip as she lets her mind drift into areas that, were she being honest to herself, she ought not consider. "Unless...?" Drifting slowly, Paul steers them through the late evening traffic that is beginning to fill the corridors. He has no idea where her mind might be drifting, his own more calm and easy now. Turning round a boisterous pair of Wookiee's, Paul echoes her final unfinished comment ... "Unless?" Ylsa gives Ferdenko a brief glance as she sweeps her gaze across the beings milling through the corridors of Cloud City, and, subdued considering her occasionally open sensuality, she turns her eyes toward the floor while murmuring, "It is of no import. Let us walk a pace or two more, hmm?" Content to let her lead the evening, Paul's gaze drops to her face with active curiousity in his hazel depths, but he presses her no further. He nods to the various beings who's eyes he meets, passing through to the south entryway. "Whatever pleases you," he replies in a rich tenor. You make your way south along the wide expanse of corridor. Grand Entryway South - Cloud City The corridor of the Grand Entryway continues here, wide and busy with business. The white walls and indirect lighting characteristic of Cloud City is a calm, conservative contrast to the various establishments opening off the causeway. Imperial presence and that of the local law enforcement is apparent here, making sure the occupants and businessbeings of the area are reminded of Imperial Law. -=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=- sino - leads to Entryway - Casino - Cloud City. outh - leads to Main Turbolift. orth leads to Grand Entryway North - Cloud City. Ylsa comes along the wide expanse of corridor from the north. Ylsa has arrived. Ylsa takes a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before releasing it in a sigh that is heavy with meaning. Using her hold on his arm for guidance, she directs Paul toward the turbolift. That puzzles the Corellian further, who lays a gentle hand on top of the one crooked through his arm. He turns, obediently, toward the turbolift, his voice pitched low as he queries, "Are you alright?" Drawing up to the lift, he presses the call button before turning back to peer down at the blonde at his side. You briskly walk into through the open elevator doors. Main Turbolift This express turbolift is simple looking and functional. Approximately one dozen beings can ride comfortably within. A small view screen with keypad input serves as the control panel. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => View Screen You step off of the turbolift. Grand Entryway South - Cloud City The corridor of the Grand Entryway continues here, wide and busy with business. The white walls and indirect lighting characteristic of Cloud City is a calm, conservative contrast to the various establishments opening off the causeway. Imperial presence and that of the local law enforcement is apparent here, making sure the occupants and businessbeings of the area are reminded of Imperial Law. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Ylsa -=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=- sino - leads to Entryway - Casino - Cloud City. outh - leads to Main Turbolift. orth leads to Grand Entryway North - Cloud City. Ylsa steps into the elevator. Ylsa has left. You briskly walk into through the open elevator doors. Main Turbolift This express turbolift is simple looking and functional. Approximately one dozen beings can ride comfortably within. A small view screen with keypad input serves as the control panel. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Ylsa => View Screen The elevator is unoccupied save for the couple, and Ylsa, turning her face toward Paul, simply nods once and looks past him, as if others were still watching. Puzzled, but guess that she either knows something that he doesn't, or has a good reason for the sudden turn around, Paul simply requests politely, "Level?" Ylsa murmurs, "Six," and effects a small, polite smile. Maybe there are surveillance cameras? Paul nods in an equally polite gesture, pressing the pad to request the sixth floor. The turbolift chimes contentedly and begins to move. You push the button corresponding to Residential Sector - Cloud City - Bespin on the elevator's touch screen. You hear a bell as a message appears on the elevator's view screen: "Destination has been reached." You step off of the turbolift. Residential Sector - Cloud City - Bespin The residential levels of Cloud City are expansive and always full of activity. The inhabitants go on about their daily lives, heedless of the political intrigues surrounding the city. The walls and floor are a polished white and light, whether artificial or natural sunlight, pours in from up above. Children dart around, laughing and playing, while adults of many races shop, talk, and eat. Tasteful artwork lines the walls and open areas. Various private turbolifts and doors are tucked away in the artistically designed calls, leading to private residences. OOC: Type '+doors' to see a residential directory. -=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=- ut - leads to Main Turbolift. Ylsa steps off of a turbolift car as the doors open with a 'woosh'. Ylsa has arrived. Still holding onto Paul's arm, her sudden shyness sitting oddly on her arctic beauty, Ylsa walks alongside Paul to the door to her apartment, keeping gaze averted and expression still and pleasant in a clinical manner. Doing his best not to push the issue, Paul escorts her to the familiar door, drawing up to a stop once it is reached and allowing his hazel gaze to rest upon her features again. Though his features are pleasantly neutral, his eyes are clearly questioning. "Don't work tonight ... wait till tomorrow," he advices uncertainly, though his voice is strong enough. "Take the night off and rest, eh?" He offers the woman a smile, lopsided in his unsurety. Timidity is hardly a comfortable emotion for Ylsa to wear, but without a doubt she hesitates in her next action where, typically, she would show certainly and boldness. Confidence is her hallmark, and without it she approaches appearing to be an entirely different person. The hand not resting on Paul's arm is raised to brush his hair away from his face and end in a curved position around his cheek, while her eyes stare into his, inquisitve and inviting. The confusion dies with her gesture, the meaning and invitation clear. The golden-green depths of his gaze warm, attraction more than evident there as he raises a hand to lay it on top of her own. Drawing it away gently, he murmurs, "We should talk ..." "I am listening..." she counters quietly, though her hand trembles as it returns to her side. The brief absence of control is owing not to the attraction she blatently shares with him but to nervousness for venturing into unchartered waters. Paul isn't about to venture into this conversation in the hallway ... too much opportunity for her to end it abruptly, for things to go poorly. Laying a hand on the door, Paul looks to Ylsa meaningfully, hoping she'll take the hint and open the door. "Let's go inside, have something to drink." Ylsa is distracted but not dim. Her lips thinning, she opens the door and passes inside without a sound. Strike one already? Shaking his head to himself, Paul trails after her waiting till the door shuts behind them before coming up close behind her and laying his hands tentatively on her upper arms. "Sorry ... just didn't think it was a conversation you'd want to have in public." He pauses for a moment, not wanting to upset her or embarass her, but finally he simply asks her, "What do you want?" Now the sliver of a shiver that courses through her is from his nearness rather from nerves, and, eyes drifting shut, she leans backward against him, hand lifting to caress his left hand atop her arm. "It feels more like a need than a want," is her whispered response. The blatant implications cause a dark sizzle within the Corellian, a primitive response to her words and her shudder. Now is the time to be very careful. Leaning close, Paul drops his head to press against hers. "I can't tell you that you don't spark me ... can't say that I'm not interested. There was a time when I wouldn't have said a word ... I'd have simply followed your silent lead and reveled in you ... but now ... I can't." His hands grip her gently, hoping that she'll understand. "You don't know me ... I don't know you ... and unless a temporary passion is all you want, this is probably not a good idea. We need to work together afterward. This is, sudden." He doesn't mention, can't mention, that their is potentially someone else in his life ... someone to whom he has made no true commitment, but to whom he feels partially bound to. He holds and waits for either her understanding, or to feel her go statue hard beneath his hands. Her muscles do tense, her body does stiffen, then, as if the moment never occurred, she draws away from his touch and his warmth, arms wrapped around herself for a half-second before her hands find occupation with a bottle and a glass. "I will need names, data, details of what you wish forged, the terms of the information you wish to falsify with the Imperials, and any recent intelligence on the planet that is available. I will also desire a day of quiet in which to work and easy access to you if questions arise. The names of our partners are also necessary." Perhaps it is better this way. Business, plain and simple. Part of Paul yearns to stop her from shutting herself off, but if he succeeds, then they are simply where they were before ... edgy desire with no place for it to go. No, this is better. Not necessarily good, but better. Drawing beside her quietly, Paul waits till she is done pouring herself a glass and then he does the same. "I can give you most of that now, verbally, or I can send you the information ... which would you prefer?" "Written. In a secured datapad you will find there, in that drawer." Ylsa indicates the place with a wave of her brandy snifter before refilling it. More space is put between them, and her eyes are as cold and hard as blue diamonds. "And do not trouble me with returning it; have a messenger bring it." While her gaze may be cold, Paul is not as successful in covering his quiet dismay. He watches her draw away, hazel eyes sharp with regret for a moment before he resigns himself to the situation. With a professional nod, he tosses back the drink in one gulp, placing the snifter down again and turning as the liquor conveniently steals away his voice. He takes the few steps required to reach the drawer, opening it up to reveal the pad, which he takes up and pockets silently. "As you wish," he notes darkly, heading toward the door with long strides. He holds there for a moment, adding, "You'll have the information by morning ... I'll be accessible either in person or by the communit on my ship. The comlink coordinates will be on the disc." With that, he palms the door to open. Ylsa has nothing further to say, and the stiffness of her back, turned to him, indicates perhaps that is best. Holding for a moment longer, Paul murmurs softly, "Thank you for what was a lovely evening. My apologies for ruining it." And with that he turns and shifts his frame through the door, which silently shuts behind him, leaving Ylsa alone in her luxurious apartment. Borderlines